


The London Revolt of 1897: Prologue

by Heubristics



Series: The London Revolt of 1897 [1]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Body Horror, Both Explicit and Implied - Freeform, Gen, Prologue, Revolutionaries, Societal Horror, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-26 21:26:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19776742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heubristics/pseuds/Heubristics
Summary: July, 1897. Fallen London is a city on the brink of flames. Under the brightness of the gas-lamps, there is a rift in its heart. Every day the Masters extend their grip over the city. Every night more Londoners slip through their talons. The streets simmer with discontent and agitation. There is a tension in the air, and mutters of sedition on the breeze. This state of affairs cannot last forever; something must happen. And soon.This story chronicles the London Revolt of 1897: an event where, in the midst of London's fourth Mayoral election during one of the hottest false-summers on record, Londoners rose up en masse to throw off the shackles of the Masters and the Bazaar. Though the Worker's Republic of Spitalfields would not survive the summer, its memory represents defiance against the status quo...and the possibility of something different.Here are a series of moments in the days before the Revolt, when the haze of false-summer came hotter and more humid than ever before. Here are the stories of the ordinary people of London; the people who will never become Persons of Some Importance. Look beyond the lamp-lights and see their faces whispering: we were here too.





	1. A Book Retrieval Day

**Author's Note:**

> “Step outside the lamp-light and London is an abyss of disease, poverty, despair…” - Adrift on a Sea of Misery, description text  
> "But chuck a rock in Veilgarden and you'll hit two worse injustices. Do the same in Spite, and you'll hit five. It ain't enough." - The Lady at the Crossroads

The two Ministry agents swelter in their black Special Constable uniforms as they make their way through the Veilgarden. It is still early morning, and yet the heat of false-summer is already present. Senior Officer O’Hara leads the way, her badge and uniform clearing a path in front of her, while Constable Bartleby follows close behind. It is warm, entirely too warm, and sweat pools on their brows and under their collars.

It’s a book retrieval day today. 

Bartleby has the notebook with the details, and O’Hara is to lead the retrieval. It’s as textbook a case as there can be for Special Constables of their rank: author with a predilection for poems about star-crossed lovers and metaphors that are a little too salacious sends their first collection for publishing, the Ministry of Public Decency deems it unsuitable for print and denies it, and someone has to go collect the original before the author tries underground publishers. 

Usually it’d be a simple contact and collect situation, but this time is a little complicated: the author is dead. All they have to go on is a name and a last known address: a bohemian artist’s hovel in the Veilgarden. *That* artist’s hovel, in fact.

The Ministry agents beeline toward it, passing under low hanging clotheslines and dodging the feral children of bohemians on their way to the address. They find the hovel in the corner of what was once a plaza, an improvised construction of fabrics, masonry and dried fungal stalks typical of the Veilgarden. O’Hara nods to Bartleby to take guard, and takes point. She walks up to the hovel’s door, and knocks once. Twice. Three times. “Constable business, open up!”

The door of the hovel opens, and a Grieving Widow peers out with bloodshot eyes and a sniffle still in her nose. Her face transforms from grief to confusion. “...Officers? Is something the matter?”

Special Constable O’Hara takes her helmet off in a sign of perfunctory respect and motions her junior colleague to do the same. She clears her throat and jostles Constable Bartleby, who quickly hands over his notebook. “Excuse me, citizen, but is this the address of one Rebecca Geller, Permanently Deceased?” 

The Grieving Widow stares at the Ministry agents for ten long seconds, then nods her head. “Yes,” she whispers, “This was where we lived.”

O’Hara nods, her face a mask of composed neutrality. She hands the notebook back to her junior colleague, who stands awkwardly to one side and wipes the sweat from his brow. “I take it you have relations to the deceased?

The Grieving Widow blinks back tears. “I was her partner... and her muse.”

At this, O’Hara allows a small frown of sympathy on her face. She is not without empathy for the Widow’s loss. The stories that her employer asks from London are about love, and love so often comes with loss. This is far from the first time she has heard the pain in a loved one’s voice as they grieve. “I’m sorry for your loss, citizen. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to allow us inside for an inspection. It will only be a moment.”

The Grieving Widow’s expression of confusion intensifies, and she clutches the doorframe for support. “Why?”

This is not an easy question, and it lingers in the summer air. But as the Special Constable is about to lie delicately about the former Miss Geller’s service to the Constables and her holding of sensitive information that could put the Widow in danger, her junior partner speaks up instead. “About a week ago Miss Geller had sent a copy of her book of love-poems to us for review,” Constable Bartleby explains with an uneasy smile, “But it’s too scandalous for London’s populace. Dangerous sentiments about love between stations. We wanted to let Miss Geller know that her book couldn’t be printed, but…”

The Grieving Widow stares wide-eyed and trembling, while O’Hara grimaces and clenches her fist in annoyance. Damn it, Bartleby, don’t tell the public what they don’t need to know and don’t tell impacted parties about why you’re here. She tries to take back control of the interaction. “Please let us inside, miss. We’re just going to collect the original book for archives and go, that’s it.”

Suddenly, the Grieving Widow steps back and tries to close the door; it is all O’Hara can do to jam her boot in the doorway and thank thick rubber and weak hinges.The Widow’s voice calls in a rising sob, “That was- was her life’s stories! All her poems from- the Surface and London and us!”

“Please open the door-"

“She let me into her poems! She said the book was our child together! Something we made!”

“Ma’am, if you don’t open the door we’re going to-”

“Please don’t take it officer, it’s all I have left of her!”

O’Hara sighs. This too, is far from her first time. The Grieving Widow slams her weight against the door, and it is enough to get the Constable to withdraw her boot. The door slams shut, and the sounds of frantic locking can be heard. “Bartleby?” The other Special Constable looks up from where he had been nervously playing with his truncheon, unsure if he should intervene or not. “Yes, O’Hara?”

“In three, we’re going to open that door. You look for the book, I’ll handle the lover.”

Constable Bartleby nods, but his face is set with anxiety. “We don’t need to hurt her, right? She’s just- Pages only wants the book for his collection doesn’t he?”

O’Hara sighs again. “Pages is the top of the ladder. If the lover tries to stop us, she’s resisting a lawful order from the Ministry of Public Decency. We’ll do what needs to be done.” She hefts her truncheon. “You don’t have a problem with doing what needs to be done, do you Bartleby?”

The Constable shakes his head hurriedly. “No, Officer O’Hara.” He unsheathes his own truncheon, and the Special Constables count down to three.

Then they kick in the door, and the raid begins.


	2. Devils and Fungus

Day in London is created via lamplight. There is no sun to rise or set on the city, only the sigils of the Bazaar and the false-stars on the Roof. Deep in Bugbsy’s Marsh, there are no lamps or lights to mark the passing of time. And yet even here there is day and night. For the little wooden shack situated at the edge of the Marsh between zee and fen, morning comes by way of fungi. Driven by eerie circadian magics, the trees and grounds around the Marsh glow with luminescence; fungal-columns the size of chimneys light up with vibrant mold-patterns and boar-sized puffballs burst into clouds of colourful spores. The fog coming in from the Unterzee captures these lights, and strange colours dance across the Marshes.

Inside his shack, the Parasitized Veteran wakes choking. He rolls out of his cot onto bare wooden planks and shivers and coughs for half a minute until he finally manages to spit up an ascoma. He glares at the shriveled red mass of hyphae with the open disgust of one who has long accepted his body is no longer his own. At last, the Veteran manages to sit up with a groan.

“G_____n mushroom.”

Hands reach out for stability on the floor and knock away empty bottles of gin. Slowly, the Veteran rises and stands up. Everything hurts. His limbs creak, his mouth tastes like rotten blemmigan, his head pounds and white dots fade in and out in the corner of his vision. A normal morning, then.

He limps over to the chipped, cracked corner of the shack he uses as an informal washroom. Normally he wouldn’t care about his appearance, but today is a special day. He has to look good, today. So he makes the effort this morning to run a comb through his unwashed hair, splash some greenish water from a bucket over his face, adjust the collar of his old army uniform. One thumb brushes lightly over the holes where his campaign medals used to be.

_~~ Despite the darkness of the Neath around them, the air is bright with lantern-light, cheering crowds, youthful laughter and the sounds of horses. His uniform is snug, fresh-crimson cloth and gleaming brass buttons, shiny and new. There is a spring in his step and a rifle in his arm as he marches with the London 1st Volunteer Battalion onward toward Hell, in a grand procession west of Stolen London flanked by cheering crowds. Already his fellow volunteers are discussing how they’ll bring devil skulls back to their sweethearts or local churches, gossiping about all the gold and brass there must be for the taking, or wondering if the old stories of incubi and succubi were true. There is an air of optimism and joviality in the air at the idea of what they are about to do: an actual crusade against Hell! A quick uppercut to the minions of Ol’ Scratch! Somewhere, a band plays Rule Britannia._

_He can still see the faces of his old companions, marching next to him. There’s Perkins, alive and whole and giving that stupid open-faced guffaw that was still so much nicer than his screams. Over there is Kingsley, stoic and solid as ever, the expression on his face just the same as it was when he finally jumped from the Triremes. In front of him, giving an intimate (last) goodbye to the Brilliant Detective, is poor brave noble Watson. And_ _behind him, covered in mycelium and fruiting with mold, is the body of Peter._

_The corpse leans over to face him with milky, dead eyes and exhales a cloud of spores. “You couldn’t have known,” the fungus says, “it wasn’t your fault.”~~_

It’s warm today. Far too warm. False-summer is an unbearable time of year in the Marshes, but today is especially so. Had he not already made plans today, the Parasitized Veteran would have stayed in today, stripped off his clothes and soaked in the marshwaters to stave off the heat. But he has plans today, and so all he does is take a wash-rag and soak it in the waterbucket, wring it out and damp his face with it. Once he is finished the Veteran makes sure his brass buttons are wiped free of grime, his pants are free of mud, his face is free of fungal spots and drenches himself with perfume from a half-echo bottle he picked up three weeks back for just this occasion. “Big day today,” he grumbles to himself as he prepares, “got to be presentable.” 

He’s going into the city today. He has an appointment. The Veteran walks to the door of his shack, looks around to make sure he has everything he needs for the day’s outing, and nods in satisfaction. Then he leans over, grabs the satchel of bomblets placed by the door, and walks out into the Marsh.

_~~All is chaos and confusion at the front. Bodies in red on the roses and the violets; explosions of fire and false law from too-distant bone walls; the screams of the wounded and the shrieks of artillery rounds streaking overhear. The Campaign against Hell has been halted._

_A hand lands on his shoulder, and he turns to see his unit captain pulling him back. “Come on soldier!” his captain says thickly. It is difficult to hear him through the enormous mass of fungal stalks sprouting from his eyes and mouth. “I’m not letting you die here, we’re pulling out!” Hyphae bursts from his captain’s sleeve and wrap around his arm, pulling him back as the captain turns and runs. And now he is turning and running too, away from the screams of the dying and the weeping of those who cannot die._

_“It’s okay,” the fungus says as they flee the battlefield, “they would have wanted you to live.”~~_

The Parasitized Veteran has plenty of time to think on the walk over to London. He sticks to the known pathways through the Marsh, the high plank roads above the waters, and wraps the wash-rag around his mouth to prevent inhaling more of the Marsh’s false-summer spore-clouds. He may already be infected, but he can’t afford to be a sniveling sneezing mess by the time he reaches the Embassy. He needs to look down, but not out. Just another poor unfortunate soul, looking to get rid of it.

He comes to Watchmaker’s Hill appearing as any other marsh-hunter. Nobody questions him. Nobody stops him. Nobody cares about his satchel of treasure: twelve bomblets, half a dozen per strap, of the new grenade style. Just pull the pin, the person who sold him the bomblets had told him, and run. The Veteran isn’t planning on running, but he appreciates the simplicity. He’d sold the last thing of value he’d had left in life - his old campaign medals - to acquire these. He wouldn’t want any to go to waste.

As he heads toward Ladybones Road, the Veteran goes unnoticed by devils on the street. But he notices them. He notices the way they laugh and flirt and stare lasciviously at the Londoners they are with. He notices the rolled up vellum of unwritten contracts and the way their spirifer’s forks are ever-so-carefully tucked away in belt-loops and sleeves. He tightens his grip on the satchel and keeps moving.

_~~He still doesn’t remember how long he spent on the Brass Triremes.There was no sense of day or night, no way to tell the passing of time. Was it months? Years? Decades? Were it not for the occasional stop as a prisoner was freed - or when someone leapt - he wouldn’t have known that he was in anything other than an endless purgatory. There is nothing but the oars and the whips and the river. The fungus says nothing from the body of the tomb-colonist it is infesting, only frowns sadly._

_No loved one or friend buys his soul back. He is only escorted off the ship and dumped into Wolfstacks with ten other former soldiers, where charity workers of a group called the Committee for Vital Restoration wait for him. They tell him he is free, that he has his own soul and his own life back. He doesn’t remember what it means to live. The nun who welcomes him back to London traces his face with her hand, ascomata blooming under her habit. “Don’t think like that,” the fungus tells him, “Life is what you make of it.”_

_Devils mockingly salute his bravery on the streets. Dante’s offers him a veteran discount. He breaks down weeping the first time he sees the Brass Embassy. He cannot bear to stay in London any longer. He takes to the Marshes, for he cannot step foot on another boat without vomiting, and spends his days hunting rats and boars for rostygold. He spends his nights drinking long enough to forget the memories, until he can black out in peace. But one night, as he is stumbling back to his shack in the Marshes, he takes a wrong turn. He stumbles. He falls. He is drowning in bog-water. Or perhaps it isn’t bog-water, but River-water. Perhaps he has jumped from the Trireme too at last._

_The fungus swirls around him, fills his mouth and nostrils and ears. It slips inside and buries itself within his blood and his guts, infests and parasitizes him. “You will not die here,” it says through his mouth, as he rises to the surface of the bog. “We will not die here.” It caresses him, warms his body and buries it’s roots deep into his memories. “We will live together. I shall always be with you.”~~_

If it weren’t for the fungus, the Veteran considers suddenly, he might not be here. He had gone to the veteran’s hospital. Tried to, at least: they couldn’t help him. The rot was already entrenched in his system, the hyphae built up in his bloodstream; he was stuck with the infection until it killed him.

But if he hadn’t gone to the hospital, he would have never met the others. The Regretful Soldier, the Subdued Protester, the Cheery Man, the Bishop of Southwark. He never would have attended the meetings, learned that the Campaign of ‘68 had not been forgotten by everyone. He wouldn’t have met the person who sold him the contents of his satchel. He wouldn't have been able to do what he is about to: to bomb the Brass Embassy.

Unbidden, a song springs to his lips. It is one he has not sung for a very long time, and for a minute he is afraid to try again. But something inside him - perhaps his old self, perhaps the fungus, perhaps both - compels him to try.

With cordyceps in his body, a dozen grenades in his satchel and the doors of the Brass Embassy in his sights, the Veteran begins whistling Rule Britannia.


	3. A Friendly Street Duel

The steady clang of a handbell and the trembling rattle of a donation plate. The sheaf of pamphlets, printed with statistics on London’s impoverished and select Bible quotes on the virtues of charity. The regular cry of “Alms! Alms for the poor!”.The thick crate with stale bread loaves and skinned rat corpses for the hungry, and blankets for the cold. These are the weapon of the Steadfast Charity Worker. The urchins that flutter around them, dressed in their Sunday best with big eyes and pleading voices to play upon the heartstrings of passersby, are their soldiers. Those that donate even an Echo, a pinch of glim or a handful of amber...these are their allies. 

And the apathy and cold shoulders of London’s well-off are their enemies.

It is a good street to be making the rounds today. Ladybones Road straddles the line between well-off and getting by, and attracts its fair share of sympathetic patrons and those in need of assistance alike. The Charity Worker can rely on a good audience for their sermons on the benefits of giving as well as enough sympathetic ears to donate echoes to the cause. And bread and meat, even if it is stale bread and rat meat, always goes fast in Fallen London. The only thing not popular today is the blankets - it is warm, unseasonably warm, and nobody wants to be out wrapped up in a ratwool blanket today. 

They are having a good day today. The donation plate clinks regularly with rostygold, jade and glim; a Jaunty Gentleman twirls his cane and drops ten whole echoes into the plate with a wink at the blushing Worker. The pamphlets go like hotcakes, even if many folks only take them to use as impromptu fans. A steady stream of the unfortunate and the dispossessed stop to get their loaf of bread and their bag of rat for the late morning. Even as the Charity Worker watches, another person comes: a Wretched Baglady, hunched and frail, with greasy grey hair and a ragged ratskin dress. The Baglady trembles as she looks at the crate of bread and rat, but says nothing.

The Steadfast Charity Worker gives her a pamphlet, which the Baglady accepts without comment. “You look hungry, Miss,” the Charity Worker says kindly, “Can I get you something to eat?”

The Baglady nods. “Yes, please.” she rasps.

The Charity Worker nods, and pulls a loaf of bread and bag of rats from the crate to press into the Baglady’s arms. The Wretched Baglady grabs them eagerly and pulls them close to her chest. A shaky smile emerges on her face, and she attempts to kiss the Worker’s hand. They politely but firmly dissuade the action. “Blessings upon your kind soul,” the Baglady rasps, clutching her new loaf of bread and bag of rat close to her chest, “for letting a poor old lady eat for the day.” She turns and shuffled off down the street, looking brighter than before.

The Charity Worker beams. They give a wave and a cheerful “Thank you miss! We’ll be here tomorrow as well!” As they turn to help the next visitor they miss the sight of the Jaunty Gentleman turning around, producing a revolver from his vest, and aiming it square at the Baglady.

The Gentleman fires three times, and misses with all three. Bullets ricochet against cobblestones and wagon sides. One shatters a window pane and sprays glass shards over the crowd of passersby. A second rips through a crate of blankets, and the urchin behind it cries out in pain. Shouts of alarm and pain can be heard along the street. 

The attack is so sudden that the Steadfast Charity Worker is struck speechless. Another bullet zips past her, so close she can feel the heat along her arm, and she falls back with a cry. The Baglady has dropped the food and is trying to limp away. A Burly Constable approaches the Gentleman, club raised, but the latter brings to the cane up to block the club. The Gentleman pushes a button, and a blade swings out from the tip of the cane; he brings the blade around low, and the Constable curses and falls backward as the sword-cane slices open his legs. 

The Baglady stumbles, trips and curses. The Charity Worker is about to run out, damn the madman with a pistol and a cane-sword, until the Baglady stands up and her hair flies off. As the greasy grey wig flops to the ground, a full head of blonde curls reveals itself. She stands straight, the hunch revealed to be fake, and wipes the greasepaint from her face. She looks at the Jaunty Gentleman with a sneer. “You must be Green-Eyed Jack,” the Daring Debutante spits, “with those pretty eyes of yours.” She flicks her wrist, and twin throwing knives spring to her hand. She arcs back. “How about I pluck them out?”

The Jaunty Gentleman laughs and steps out of the way; the throwing knives goes streaking past. A choking cry and a scream: a fleeing costermonger collapses with one knife buried in his spine. “Too slow, Snuffer’s Understudy!” he says with a grin, “These eyes see right through you!” He flourishes his cane-sword and assumes a fencing stance, revolver in his off hand. “Throwing knives like that in public, how gauche! Let us dance properly!”

The Debutante pulls out another knife - a long-handled obsidian blade, this one - and brandishes it with one hand. She draws a derringer with her other and smirks. “I’ll take the lead, then!”

The Debutante leaps. The Gentleman lunges.

As the Gentleman and the Debutante clash blades and pistols, the rest of the street erupts in panic. Pistol fire rings out. Pedestrians and urchins scatter. The Steadfast Charity Worker sees a horse-drawn supply wagon swing out to avoid the duelists and barrel towards them, and dives to the side; gravel sprays them as the wagon stampedes past. A stray bullet splinters a wheel, and the wagon lurches and veers straight into a nearby butcher’s shop. Glass shards and splintered wood litters the street.

The Debutante whips off her false hunch, revealing it to be hollow. As the Gentleman plunges his sword-came deep into the hunch, the Debutante laughs in victory. She pulls something from it, something long and orange with a short wick on the end, and lights it with a hidden lighter. Oh. The Charity Worker has seen those before.

“DYNAMITE!” someone screams, and everyone still on the street ducks for cover. The Debutante laughs, and tackles the Gentleman. 

The Charity Worker does not know afterwards how they managed to leap the overturned supply cart with an Urchin in each arm, but in the heat of the event they manage to do so. They barely have time to tell the children to cover their ears before-

There is a loud noise, and a blast of air, and then a silence which does not last.

Smoke curls over the remains of the street. The Steadfast Charity Worker peeks out from behind the wreckage of the supply cart, holding back the urchins next to them. One asks another if they can hear anything yet. The Charity Worker can see shapes stumbling in the smoke, wounded figures dragging themselves away. They can hear cries of pain and the distant wailing of sirens. And near the center of the street, where the Debutante and Gentleman had played their deadly game, they can see a figure lying prone on the cobblestones. Dark liquid pools around the body. Smaller spatters lead away to another body a few feet away. Half of one, at least.

The Charity Worker dashes out toward the figure in the street, though they don’t know quite why; perhaps it is an instinctive need to help others in pain, perhaps it is a need to shout at the person for their act of carnage. They slow down as they approach the body, noticing the ratskin dress under the charring: the Daring Debutante. 

They kneel down at the Debutante’s side, and try to speak. But all that comes out is “Why?”

The Debutante can’t move her head, but her eyes meet the Charity Worker’s. Beneath the dynamite burns, she manages a smile. Her right hand is outstretched and clenches something tightly; it opens to reveal a blood-stained black ribbon. 

“Nature of the game,” the Debutante whispers thickly, “Sometimes…” she coughs white and red, “You tag them. Sometimes...they tag you.”

The Charity Worker stares. Their eyes sting from the smoke, their hearing dimmed from the yells and incoming sirens. They taste copper in their mouth. Their fists clench “The game? All this? Just- just a game?”

The Debutante nods. “It’s okay…” she drawls, before launching into another coughing fit. Her finger points to the lower half of what had once been the Gentleman. “I won...he died first. I’ll be...I’ll be back.” 

Even as the light in her eyes dim, she won’t stop looking at her new black ribbon. 

The Charity Worker stays by her side. A hint of bile rises in their throat as they stare at the black ribbon for which the Jaunty Gentleman and the Daring Debutante had fought so fiercely.Their hand reaches toward the ribbon...and then hesitates. They pull back from the body.

The Charity Worker rises in a daze, and turns their back on the Debutante. They can hear urchins crying, Constables swearing, cats yowling. There are injured to attend to. The Debutante is none of their concern now.

A sudden gust of wind blows through the street and lifts the black ribbon that once belonged to the Jaunty Gentleman into the air. It floats for a moment on the breeze, and then blows into a nearby gutter.


	4. Incident at the Iron & Misery Furniture Factory

A shrill whistle pierces the air around the Iron & Misery Furniture Factory. Across the factory floor, workers raise their heads from the lines, put down their tools and wipe the sweat from their brows. They leave in ones and twos, lining up to punch out their time sheets before exiting out the open factory doors. Drinkmongers and Costermongers throng the street outside, offering beer and sandwiches and Rubbery Lumps to the hungry workers. After six hours since the day’s work began, the Lunch Break has arrived.

The Clay Men on the lines continue working. They do not need to eat. They do not not need to take breaks. They are not allowed to.

Most of the workers cluster in groups as they take their break. But the Disgruntled Line Worker does not. He walks alone out of the factory, and only pauses long enough at the entrance to look back with an angry glare.

Once, he would have taken lunch with his mates. That’s how it goes when a new factory opens up in London: entire neighborhoods turn up at the gates to get work. Every morning the Line Worker would walk to the factory with the other young people of his neighborhood and assemble at the factory gates, every noon they’d take their lunch together, and every evening they’d punch out and walk back home. When the Line Worker started at this furniture factory, there’d been eleven others from his street on the line.

There was only him now. Ever since the Clay Men got brought in. 

It wasn’t that the Clay Men were bad. They were good at their jobs. Too good. One single Clay Man could easily replace a dozen human workers on the lines, and after the owner bought them that was it: they didn’t need to eat, they didn’t need to take breaks, and they didn’t ask to get paid. They were expensive - the Line Worker could work day in and day out for years and not save enough to buy one - but they paid for themselves. Occasionally one would turn out to secretly be a murderous psychopath, or so the Line Worker had heard, but you just paid a little extra to guarantee they wouldn’t be.

It was only one or two at first, at the Iron & Misery Furniture Factory. A few folks got laid off, but it wasn’t too bad. Then the Future-Thinking Industrialist who owned the factory decided to invest, and soon the factory was filled with dozens of Clay Men and a hundred or more workers were given the boot. 

The other folks on his street didn’t begrudge him for still having his job - “better one of us than none of us” - but the Line Worker could see the hunger in their eyes as they begged for work at the gates. 

So he eats his lunch alone, and sits in silence until the whistle that signals end of break is over. He shuffles back into the factory with the rest of the workers, punches back in and resumes his place on the line opposite a burly Clay Man almost twice his height, standing next to a bigger conveyor built carrying partially-assembled wardrobes to one side and a stack of doors on the other. The Clay Man’s job is to assemble the doors to the wardrobes as they come past on his line. The Line Worker’s job is to hand him the knobs. 

“WELCOME BACK,” the Clay Man says, nodding to the Line Worker. The latter ignores him. He has ignored this particular Clay Man for almost a month now, ever since they arrived one day and informed him the six men he had worked with before were no longer employed.

“LET US BE PRODUCTIVE TODAY,” the Clay Man responds, unperturbed by the Line Worker’s silence. The latter continues to ignore him, and waits for the production line to begin. The Clay Man has said this too before, every day. The Line Worker only allows himself the satisfaction of one reply, said as quietly as he can under his breath: “Damned golem.” It’s the same words his father used to describe them, and his friend as well.

As he works, he dreams about getting the Clay Man fired. Even if they were bought, they could still be fired...right? He considers the possibilities of how to do so. The Clay Man uses a set of heavy tools to fix the doors to the wardrobes, and he could covertly take one of them and just...smash some gears with it. Blame the Clay Man for going rogue. Or he get some clay from the Stolen River and smear it all over the wheels of the line belts, jam them and mess them up. Clay Man sweat, don’t they? It’s been awfully hot lately…Ooh, or what about... 

It is a freak accident that causes the incident. There is a crane that picks up the wardrobes from the floor, carries them over to the cargo bay for wagon loading. A weakness in one of the gripping claws, unnoticed. The crane passes over the line where the Line Worker and Clay Man are assembling doors and wardrobes...and one of the claws goes slack. The armoire in its grip falls freely.

The next thing the Line Worker remembers, the Clay Man is reaching over the line and pushing him over. The sheer force of the impact sends him sliding backwards across the floor, hitting the wall with a thump just as the wardrobe drops right on top of the Clay Man with a sickening crunch.   


It takes more than a few seconds for the Line Worker to stand up, head spinning. It takes another few seconds for him to realize what just happened.

The sight is at once grisly and eerily not. There is no blood, no gore, no fragments of bone. All there is...is clay. Clay fragments scattered around the factory lines and floor. Clay smears against the fallen wardrobe. The smell of wet clay in the air. The front half of the Clay Man, trapped by the wardrobe, hands clenched and shuddering. The screeching as assembly lines grind to a halt, the whispers of other line workers and a loud call: “ACCIDENT ON THE FLOOR.” The Line Worker’s head pounds from the impact of the wall and the sight before him.

And then the Clay Man opens his mouth and moans. It is a guttural sound, the rumbling of rocks falling down a cliff or an earthquake ripping open a hill. It vibrates up the Line Worker’s spine and around his brain, and even if it’s not like a human’s screams it’s somehow just as unnerving. The Line Worker feels dizzy and nauseous somehow...but why? 

Why does he feel bad for this golem that took over his friends’ jobs, this false man that shouldn’t be able to feel pain in the first place? Why does the sight of broken clay and the sound of groaning cause his gorge to rise? Why is he sprinting over to the wardrobe, pushing and pulling at it as if he - a single human - can hope to lift it off the other worker?

He doesn’t know why. He strains and grits his teeth, until he feels something give. The wardrobe rises from the ground slightly. For a moment he almost thinks in disbelief that the sheer adrenaline has given him superhuman strength, until he realizes two more Clay Men have stepped up on either side. Their arms strain as they lift the wardrobe - and until he lets go, the Line Worker - off of their shattered comrade. They push it up and back, and it lands once more with a second resounding crash. 

The Future-Thinking Industrialist whips around the stairs from the manager’s office to the factory floor and rushes to the scene of the crash.

It is all the Disgruntled Line Worker can do to stand there and stare at the sight: the shattered smear of greenish-grey where the Clay Man’s lower torso once was, the Industrialist wide-eyed and boggling at the sight, his fellow line workers and other Clay Men forming a ring around the entire thing as they jostle to see what happened. The Industrialist kneels down beside the fallen Clay Man’s head and cradles it in his arms, sobbing.

“Down the drain,” he manages to say at last, through tears.

The Line Worker blinks.

“A hundred and fifty echoes down the drain,” the Industrialist weeps, “I pay a hundred and fifty echoes for a single lousy stinking statue, and this is how I’m repaid?” His voice rises, “Hardest Workers Around, Albert! Never Crack Or Break, Albert! GET BACK TO WORK ALL OF YOU, I’M ALREADY DOWN ONE WARDROBE AND ONE CLAY MAN!”

The human workers scatter. The other Clay Men on the floor, after a long look at both their fallen brother and the Future-Thinking Industrialist, turn back to their own positions. All that remains at the scene is the ruined wardrobe, the Industrialist, the two Clay Men that had helped lift the former, the Line Worker...and the body.

The two Clay Men step forward. “WE SHALL DISCARD THE RUBBLE,” one intones, picking up the front half of the Clay Man - shouldn’t he be dead? Why is he still moaning? - in their arms. The other nods, already fetching a bin into which they shovel bits and smears of clay. 

The Industrialist nods, no longer crying. “See that you do, promptly,” he snaps before turning to the Line Worker. “And you…well, production is already shot anyhow. Run home and tell your clan or kin or whatever you call them that we’re looking for some new workers, pronto, starting today and working late. Iron & Misery doesn’t let a little accident interfere with their quotas!” He dismisses the Line Worker with little more than a wave, and leaves.

The Line Worker is left alone. He stands still, and looks at his line. He looks at where the Clay Man had been standing. He looks at the retreating back of the Industrialist, and the other workers already returning to their labor, and at the scuff marks on the floor where the Clay Man had pushed him out of the way of the wardrobe. He looks at the two Clay Men carrying the upper half out the door.

“Where will you bury him?” he asks, feeling foolish as soon as he finishes.

One of the Clay Men stops, looks back at him. His voice is a booming whisper. “In The Clay Quarters,” he intones, “Where He May Be Rebuilt.”

The Line Worker says nothing, only nods. He watches the two leave out the factory door, and make their way toward the gates. He turns back, and considers his line; considers the gear-work that keeps it moving.He walks around to the other side of the line, avoiding the remaining streaks of clay on the floor. He picks up one of the Clay Man’s tools: a socket wrench. He waits until the floor is noisy with industry, and then drops the socket wrench straight into the gears.It disappears from sight; the next time the line starts up, there’s going to be a nasty jam.

And with that done, the Line Worker walks out the factory door. He can just see the Clay Men at the other end of the gates, disappearing out of view, off to wherever these Clay Quarters were that could bring their comrade back to life. 

He hurries after them...first at a jog, and then a run. 


	5. The End of a Family

This afternoon, Mu Market Road throngs with cabs and pedestrians in a sweating, muggy haze of activity. But in the townhouse on 377 Mu Market Road, all is quiet, cool and dim. The air is still. A shadow flits across the dining parlour wall.

The Dutiful Sister is all alone. 

She wanders from room to room, restless. She has nobody else to talk to: Mother is gone. Father is gone. Sister is gone. But she cannot leave, because she is the Dutiful Sister, and she must look after the townhouse. Occasionally she stops and eats a piece of candied fungus or preserved fruit from a bowl in the dining room. Other times she attempts to read a page or two from a book; sings a portion of choir-song; gazes out the window. 

She passes by a portrait of her family on a cabinet - Mother, Father, Sister, Herself - that has somehow managed to remain upright. She stops, stares, shudders. The portrait is quickly placed face-down. Her family is no more.

It all started with Mother. Fearsome, fiercely protective and joyful Mother, who Father said had been a tiger before she got bored and wanted a change. She had been a hunter, Mother, perhaps the best hunter in all of London. She traveled to far off places all the time, from the Pale Wastes to the Southern Archipelago. Sometimes she was gone for days at a time. But she had always come home with a souvenir from her adventures and a treat for the Sisters...Until she didn’t. The Dutiful Sister remembered how Father had broken down the day when the Constables brought the news. She remembered his sobs as the Portly Constable gave her condolences: “She didn’t suffer, sir, the other hunters confirmed. It just came right up, got her in the back, dead before she knew it was even there. She’ll be mourned at the Medusa's Head tonight: there’s not many hunters that manage to put even a scratch on the Vake.”

After Mother disappeared, Father wasn’t far behind. Poor, sweet Father, who knew all the words in the English language and two more besides. He had been a scholar and a teacher, and had brought the most fascinating individuals home to dinner parties. When Mother was off hunting he’d take his daughters to the Zoo, to the University, to the Shuttered Palace, and even once or twice to the Carnival. After Mother...something in him broke. He didn’t take his daughters on trips anymore. He stayed in the townhouse, read strange books about wells and teeth, invited bad-smelling strangers with hunger in their eyes, and began to hoard candles. He talked about the Name and the Number, Hatred and the Vake in his sleep. And then one night the Dutiful Sister had woken up and found Father standing above her in a trance, wielding a knife and a candle. Only the screams of the Adventurous Sister had awoken Father from his trance. He had babbled, and cried, and plead forgiveness. And then he had run out the door, out the townhouse and never returned.

And then…

And then it was Sister. Her Adventurous Sister, the one that always took the lead whenever the Dutiful Sister was frightened. She wasn’t afraid to leave the townhouse, not at all. And after Mother and Father went, it was she who left and came back with food and books and news.

“There’s other children like us!” she had said one evening to the Dutiful Sister.

“Like- like us?”

“Yeah, who don’t have their mothers or fathers anymore!” the Adventurous Sister had seemed sad about saying that, but only a little bit, “and they roam around the rooftops, and have all sorts of adventures and scrapes, and are free as birds!” She had looked at the Dutiful Sister after that. “Let’s leave this place, Sister. Let’s join the roof-urchins.”

“I’ll think about it,” the Dutiful Sister had said, clutching her pillow tight. And for a while, the subject had been dropped. But the Adventurous Sister had gone out for longer and longer after that, and been back later and later, until one night she had decided: she was going out to join the urchin-gangs, permanently.

Her Adventurous Sister had placed a hand on her shoulder, kissed her cheek. Her own were streaked with tears. “I’ll come back for you,” she had promised, “I won’t leave you in this horrible empty house alone. I’ll join the Fisher-Kings, or the Regiment, or the Ringbreakers! And we’ll be together forever!”

But that was over two weeks ago. Perhaps longer; the Dutiful Sister’s sleep schedule has grown erratic, as of late. Her Adventurous Sister has not returned. No members of the urchin-gangs have come to contact her. Nobody, in fact, has stopped by the house at all. It is only her in this quiet, cool and dim memory of a home. All alone. 

All alone. She wants to leave, but the Dutiful Sister never left her family or her home. Only the Adventurous Sister ever dared explore beyond the walls of the townhouse. She is too scared to leave.

The doorbell rings.

Every hair on the Dutiful Sister stands on end. It has been so long since someone rang that she does not quite believe it is real. She rushes to the door, unlocks and opens it, and flushes as she sees the Portly Constable standing on the other side of the door. “Oh, officer,” she gasps, “It has been so- so long since someone came. Did Sister send you?” 

The Constable smiles weakly. “Oh, I’m sorry missus...I know it's been rough. But I’m only a guard. He’s the one here for you.” She stands aside, and a man in a red mask enters the townhouse.

The Sister falls back, stumbles and falls to the ground and scrabbles backwards at the sight of the man. His dress is flamboyant, but it is the sight of the red, perpetually frowning mask he wears that catches her gaze. The mask looks around the room, frowning at the darkness and the cobwebs and the wallpaper...and then it fixes on her.

She raises an arm to block the sight of the mask, though she does not know why. “Who- who are you?” she asks weakly.

The man in the red mask kneels down, resting on the balls of his feet to look the Dutiful Sister right in the eye. His teeth gleam. His eyes gleam. He reaches out a gloved hand and pats the Sister lightly on the shoulder. “My name’s Poor Edward. And I’m here to bring you to your new home.”

His voice is kind, yet something in his eyes is so unnerving that the Sister looks away after barely a glance. She was never good with strangers. Her Adventurous Sister would always be excited whenever Mother and Father brought someone to dine with them, and ask them all sorts of questions, but the Dutiful Sister would always find the sudden shock of someone new overwhelming. She would always hide, until called out by her sister or parents. But her parents are gone - dead - and her sister is gone. There is only her, the constable and this man - Poor Edward - in the townhouse now, and something in his eyes says that there is nowhere she could hide that he couldn’t find her.

“My new- new home?” the Dutiful Sister manages to stammer at last, still looking away. She tries to catch the gaze of the constable standing watch, but she refuses to meet the Sister’s eyes. “Is- is my sister there?”

The red mask tilts slightly. “Oh yes, she’ll be there. We couldn’t bear to split a family apart. Don’t worry, there’s a lot of other people there. You and your sister will be taken care of, until you’re ready to come back and claim your family’s estate.” Poor Edward stands up, and offers a hand out to her. “I promise.”

After several long seconds - in which she looks around the townhouse she grew up in for what would, at least for a while, be the last time - the Sister nods. She stands up, shakily, and takes Poor Edward’s hand. He squeezes it firmly. His smile seems kinder, somehow.

“What is...what is our new home called?” the Sister asks as they exit, where a hansom in black and red livery awaits the three. 

Poor Edward shrugs. “Nothing fancy, my dear. It’s just called the Orphanage.”


	6. Political Cartoon

It is that time of the late afternoon when the daytime lamps are dimmed, but not entirely put out; London is still lit up, but only just. The mist creeps in and an amber fog fills the streets; buildings put out their own lamps, filled with gas or candle or luminescent beetles; far above the false-stars can only just been seen, winking in and out as they move across the ceiling. It is this time of the day that the Struggling Artist loves the best, this false-dusk that coats everything in soft hues of orange and green and purple, as he packs up his stall on Hood’s Bridge. As he goes about packing up his frames and canvases and paints he brightens at the sight of the lamplighters flitting from lamp to lamp, carefully dialing down the burners. Then he takes a cleaning rag and dunks it in a pot of river-water, and wipes his face. It has been exceedingly warm today. Even here, by the Stolen River. 

The Struggling Artist is all but spent for the day. He has been at this spot since what would have been morning on the Surface performing his trade of choice: caricature.

He’d always been drawn to political cartoons, and while other bohemians in his cohort may have spurned caricature as the province of commercial sell-outs and hack-jobs he had made it his specialty. Give him five minutes, and he could sketch you a portrait; ten minutes, a background scene to go with it. Enough time, and you could receive a political cartoon on whatever topic appealed to you. It was a way to express himself, as well as make a little money. Not much, to be fair, but a little.

Recently, he’d even come into a bit of luck. The Nocturnals were coming back into vogue at the Court, and that drive for mild, safe revolution against the norms of established aesthetic taste had driven some Society figures to commission him. It had become a small fad, apparently, to have cartoons of yourself on display; a little display of humor to show you didn’t take yourself too seriously. And it paid the rent, too. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a hooded figure and a Clay Man in red walking slightly behind, walking across the bridge. He pays them no mind until the figure veers and heads toward him. As the two approach, he puts on a smile of congeniality. He was technically closed for the day, but that was no reason to brush a stranger off.

“Can I help you, friend?”

The figure pulls back her hood, and the gleam of a tiara strikes the late afternoon light. The sheer presence of the Captivating Princess fills the space. 

The Artist frantically bows when he sees the Princess. “My apologies...Your Highness.”

She smiles at the Artist, and toys with one of the many rings on her left hand. “It’s okay, my loyal subject...I was in disguise, you see!” She points to the Artist, then to his cart, and then to several of his most recent works not yet packed up. “I heard that you were the Struggling Artist who’s become a name at court, recently. That you do such wonderful funny caricatures for people who ask.”

The Artist nods quickly, still bowing. “Yes, Your Highness. I’ve had some commissions from Court attendees recently. I’m open for commissions every day, from-”

The Captivating Princess cuts him off with a wave. “I’d like to commission you for one too, then!” she beams.

The Artist raises his head in confusion. “...really?” 

“Oh yes, you seem to do such a great job of bringing out their…” a short giggle, “true personalities. I want to have one of my own, too. So I can show father and mother and the rest of the family.”

The Artist rises to his feet, and nods. When the Captivating Princess made a request, you didn’t turn it down if you knew what was good for you. He hurriedly pulls out paper, pens, inks, a stool. “I’m technically closed but- but I can do one for you now, Your Highness! It should only take a few minutes, ten at most.”

The Captivating Princess beams, and promptly sits down on a stool. The Clay Man attendant takes up position behind her, and folds his arms. The Struggling Artist licks his lips with anxiety. This must be...perfect. 

The next ten minutes are a blur of activity. The Artist looks, and looks again, and sketches. He begins with a pencil, and then turns to pen, and then rapidly runs through a variety of inks to add flourishes and embellishments of colour. It is difficult to sketch the Princess. Every time he looks at her, it is difficult to turn away; something about the captivating nature with which she smiles at him, perhaps. Or perhaps it is more akin to the wariness a rat displays when it notices a cat observing him. 

His hand trembles, and then spasms just before he is able to apply the finishing touches on the rubies of her tiara. A splotch of red ink splashes over the caricature Princess’s lips. The Struggling Artist freezes, looking at the portrait. Could he- what if- no, no it’s too late, the Princess is starting to bounce up and down ever so slightly with impatient curiosity at the artwork.

The Struggling Artist takes one last look at his work, and then swallows. His throat is suddenly dry. He turns the portrait around, and reveals his work of art to the Princess. “It’s finished,” he manages to get out.

The Captivating Princess inspects the caricature intensely. She gazes at herself: a royal, bubbly figure holding court among her family and attendants. But it was meant to be a caricature, a cartoon, something in good fun. And so the Struggling Artist has taken...creative liberties with the scene. Couriers depicted as imps and goblins fawn at the feet of the royal family. The other royal children, through depicted more sympathetically, are exaggerated in their own right: the Bellicose Prince nearly swells out of his army uniform, the Brooding Captain is a parody of a chiseled heroic figure, the Playful Prodigy is a wide-eyed china doll and the Heartbroken Bibliophile is rendered as only a pair of eyes looking out from under an enormous pile of books.

The Princess, as the subject of the portrait, dominates the piece. She perches on the Empress’s throne wearing a tiara with “Princess B.” written across the front, holding a sceptre with a bee on the end in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. Her beauty is exaggerated, exquisite features emphasized to such a degree they border on the grotesque. She is smiling, teeth slightly visible. And from the Princess’s lips in the drawing, something drips red and crimson,

The Captivating Princess looks at it critically, and them suddenly sits up and claps. “Oh, it’s simply wonderful!” she says, “the attention to detail! The penmanship! The aesthetic flourishes! Not to mention the accuracy.” She laughs, bright and sharp like a glass shard. “Oh, do be a dear and give him his payment.”

The Clay Man attendant nods and approaches the Struggling Artist with a weaselskin bag. He hands it over to the Struggling Artist. It feels fulls. He takes a quick peek inside...and sees diamonds. 

Handfuls, fistfuls of diamonds. A bag full of diamonds probably worth more than he’d make in three months, for one painting. 

The Artist sits holding the bag, stunned. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

The Captivating Princess waves her hand in dismissal, “Nonsense, nonsense.” Then she looks at the portrait again. She taps one red nail against the canvas, where on the throne the Princess is drawn sitting in there is inked: VICTORIA’S. “There is one little thing, however…”

She smiles cheerfully at the Struggling Artist staring back at her. “The Royal Court depicted as monsters, the Princess sitting in her mother’s throne, the blood on the lips...it’s very scandalous, don’t you think? Treasonous, even.”

The sweat that beads on the Artist’s face has nothing to do with the heat. “I’m sor-sorry Your Highness, I didn’t mean treas-“

The Princess snaps her fingers. “Of course! It’s sedition! Why must the best artists always be the seditious ones?” she sighs, “Grab him, please. Take him to the Cage-Gardens. His art is too good not to experience.”

The Struggling Artist backs away from the advancing Clay Man, hands raised and pleading mercy. The Clay Man shakes his head morosely, and aims a fist at the Artist’s stomach. He doubles over, gasping, as the Captivating Princess approaches him. She picks up the caricature portrait and tucks it under one arm.

“You really are a good caricaturist,” she smiles with approval to the Struggling Artist, “I’ll be happy showing this to the family at dinner.” She kisses the Artist on the cheek and pats his face before turning away,

Then there is a blow to the back of his head, and everything goes mercifully black.


	7. A Long, Warm Midnight

Down here, there is no sun and no moon. But there is still night.

Night falls upon London. The lamps burn low and gutter out. The streets gradually empty of people and carts to leave only the cats, the rats, and the night folks. The shops close down, and the taverns open up. Long shadows fall across the buildings. 

Somewhere, a Grieving Widow sobs for the loss of both her love and her love’s memory in a dark, loveless shack.

Somewhere, two Special Constables share a drink in a police bar and avoid discussing the events of the day.

Somewhere, the lobby of the Brass Embassy smokes with soot and ash from a dozen grenade blasts.

Somewhere, a Parasitized Veteran laughs hysterically as he is carted off to New Newgate Prison for his own protection.

Somewhere, a Steadfast Charity Worker counts the day’s donations and wraps a bandage around their leg, where a shard of glass has left a ragged scar. 

Somewhere, a Daring Debutante holds a grime-ridden black ribbon up to the light in celebration.

Somewhere, a Disgruntled Line Worker observes something that is at once a funeral and a resurrection. 

Somewhere, a Future-Thinking Industrialist calculates the loss to the day’s profit margins.

Somewhere, a Dutiful Sister looks nervously at the front gates of the Orphanage.

Somewhere, an Adventurous Sister returns home to an empty townhouse.

Somewhere, a Struggling Artist screams as he is placed inside a cage, buzzing in his skull.

Somewhere, the Captivating Princess displays her new portrait proudly to her family. 

Everywhere, life goes on.

Somewhere, people meet and talk of revolution. Things will change, soon. Things must change, soon. The status quo is intolerable. The Museum of Injustice grows more exhibits by the day. Something must be done.

Somewhere, the winds of false-summer blow hot and humid. Spores and sedition spread on the breeze. It is a warm summer, this year. Too warm. Warm enough to create sparks under a powderkeg.

One by one, the lamps burn out.

It will be a long, warm midnight for London.


End file.
